Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,9

a plane yesterday. I glanced down the street, wincing at the roar of car engines, the buzz of scooters, the screams of irate drivers. Ireland had been chaotic. Rome was insane. "We need to find a taxi stand."

"We can't just flag one down?"

"Duncan mentioned it's almost impossible to wave down a cab in Rome."

"Why?"

"He didn't say why. He simply said it was."

"We'll see about that." Hips swiveling, chest out, she sashayed toward the street, scanned the lanes of traffic, then without warning, raised her arm in a kind of Heil Hitler salute and stepped off the curb into the path of an oncoming car.

"JACK!" I covered my eyes with my hands.

Tires squealed. Rubber burned. Horns blared. Terrified, I inched my fingers apart and took a peek.

Jackie stood before a miniature white car, a sultry smile on her lips, her stilettoed foot perched on the front bumper. But this wasn't just any car. It had a little sign on the roof. It was a taxi!

The driver laid on his horn and yelled something out the window. Jackie motioned me toward the car. "Emily! Will you get in before he decides to run me down!"

I opened the door and jumped into the backseat. "Maleducato!" the driver screamed at me, followed by a string of Italian that didn't sound too flattering. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, a half inch of ash threatening to fall off. He wore a slouch cap that sat low on his forehead and a stained white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms were dark, hairy, and bulged like sacks of seed corn.

"Hi," I countered, offering him a two-fingered wave. "You don't happen to speak English, do you?"

He projected his right fist in the air and slapped his elbow with his left hand -- a rather subtle gesture that I took to mean, NO! I caught his eye in the rearview mirror and flashed a conciliatory smile. He glared at me, using his forefinger to slash an imaginary line across his throat from ear to ear. Oh, this was nice. All the taxis in Rome, and we had to get the one driven by Vlad the Impaler.

Jackie scrambled into the backseat and collapsed beside me. "There," she said breathlessly. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Not if you were a six-foot transsexual in stiletto heels. The rest of us could have a slight problem.

I gave the driver the name of our hotel in my most precise Italian, then fell backward as he gunned the engine and charged across two lanes of traffic. He drove with one hand on the wheel, one arm out the window, and one eye ogling Jackie in the rearview mirror. He wove left. He wove right. He thrust his head out the window to yell at a passing bus, then outraced a pack of scooters in a competition to be first across a bridge. The G force pinned me to my seat. Scenery sped by in a blur. I realized everything I'd heard about Italian drivers was true. They were rude. They were short-tempered. They ignored speed limits and signs. And considering the lunatic way they maneuvered through the raging disorder in the city streets, they had to be the most skilled drivers in the world.

Jackie angled her head away from the glare of the rearview mirror and whispered behind her hand, "Why is he leering at me like that?"

"He's Italian. I think they're all programed that way."

"How come he's not leering at you?"

"I'm not wearing white spray paint."

We took a corner on two wheels and shrieked to a stop in front of a building with curved ironwork fronting the second-story balconies and lots of black window shutters. "Albergo Villa Bandoccio Maccio D'Angelo," the driver announced with an emphatic wave of his hand.

I peeked at the building through the car window. I sidled an uneasy look at Jackie. "Do you remember balconies on our hotel?"

"Nope."

"This is the wrong hotel, isn't it?"

"Yup."

EH! "Excuse me." I tapped the driver politely on the arm and enunciated slowly so he could understand me. "Is there another hotel by this name somewhere else in Rome? This isn't where we're staying."

"Albergo Villa Bandoccio Maccio D'Angelo," he repeated, pounding a hand on the meter to indicate the fare owed him.

"I can see what the name of the hotel is," I fired back. "The problem is, WE DON'T HAVE A RESERVATION HERE!"

"Figlio d'una madre infame!" he spat, making a supplicating gesture to the heavens. "Figlio d'un cane! Disgraziato!